


Daydream Believer

by HollyGoPossumlovesJ2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Language, Angst, Baby's 50th Birthday Challenge by @butiaintgonnaloveem, Baby-centric, Caretaker Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Gender Neutral Character, Hunter Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, More Fluff, Multi, Open Ending, Sad Dean Winchester, Smut, Song fic, hunter original character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9337598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyGoPossumlovesJ2/pseuds/HollyGoPossumlovesJ2
Summary: We were heading back from a hunt the first time I'd gotten Dean to sing with me. Sam had stayed behind to work on the on going project of digitizing the Men of Letters' library. He'd tiredly shuffled the two of us out the door, his brown hair askew, and probably gone back to the uncomfortable wooden chair pulled up to a table. Last I'd seen it, it was stacked high with books that he was translating so he could figure out what category it fit under.This story is the product of @butiaintgonnaloveem's Baby's Big 50 Writing Challenge. The goal was to write a fiction that was centered on Baby, the Impala and I hope I did this justice. This one shot is documentation of time spent between Dean and the narrator. Most of the time is spent in the Impala.





	

We were heading back from a hunt the first time I'd gotten Dean to sing with me. Sam had stayed behind to work on the on going project of digitizing the Men of Letters' library. He'd tiredly shuffled the two of us out the door, his brown hair askew, and probably gone back to the uncomfortable wooden chair pulled up to a table. Last I'd seen it, it was stacked high with books that he was translating so he could figure out what category it fit under.

Now we were sore from our hair follicles down to our toenails, and dripping wet from the rain. There had been more vampires than we'd planned on, as usual. Plus, the impromptu thunderstorm hadn't really helped matters any. It turned out we really could've used Sam's help. However, we'd dispatched all of them by the skin of our teeth and now had the wounds to prove it. Now we were in the safe confines of that beautiful, shiny black machine also known as Baby, and smearing her immaculate interior with rain water, mud, and blood.

You know, the usual.

In fact, I was driving because Dean had a gash in his right thigh that was slowly oozing blood even with a tourniquet. I'd argued with Dean about stopping to get a hotel for the night, but he was dead set on getting home to the bunker that was still a few hours away. I knew it was probably because the man still didn't like being separated from his brother for too long.

Even though Dean had me to keep his bed warm, the brothers were still painfully codependent. I supposed if I'd grown up in the life as young as they had and been through half of what they had, I would be too. So, I'd bandaged it up the best I could and told him to cool it in the passenger seat. He hadn't taken too kindly to being bossed around, but realized that it was futile to argue with me. I had a stubborn streak that rivaled his.

I had a few good gashes too. A couple of them probably needed stitches, but they could wait. At first, the rumble of Baby's engine beneath me and her wheel in my grip had been enough of a thrill to keep me wide eyed awake. I could count on one hand how many times I'd been given the honors of driving her. However, as the adrenaline spike threatened to wane, I found I was having difficulty keeping my eyes open.

I knew how much Dean treasured his car and treated it accordingly. Her suspension was a little rougher than a newer car and the solid steel chassis made sure we felt each bump and dip in the road. Dean never complained, but a pained, bitten off groan escaped him through gritted teeth if it was a particularly jarring bump. Like now, as I was unable to avoid a pot hole due to the size and a car coming the opposite direction at the same time.

Dean let out a pained grunt, gripping his leg through his blood soaked bandages as he nearly knocked his head into the roof. "Sorry." I gave him a quick apologetic glance when he settled, unable to take my eyes off of the road for too long. Baby's steering was smooth and sure, no doubt Dean rotated and balanced her tires regularly, but I just didn't trust myself. Plus, the rain was still coming down in buckets and pooling in the road. Luckily, unlike those newer ‘plastic roller skates’ (As Dean liked to call them), Baby was heavy which made it less likely that we would hydroplane.

A few moments later, Dean finally eeked out an, "S'okay."

After the traffic died down a little and we were on a boring back road with barely a street lamp to light the way, I felt my eye lids drooping in the heat of the car. Shit. I had the heat on full blast, not wanting Dean to be cold because of blood loss. But damn if it wasn't making it really hard to stay awake.

Dean's go to remedy would be to pop in one of his favorite tapes, but I had my own idea. "You know what my Dad and I used to sing on long trips?" My father and I had been dumped into 'the life' after a djinn had taken my mother. I'd been an only child. So, after that Dad and I were close. We hunted together until a werewolf had bitten him, leaving me banged up and nearly broken. That's when Dean and Sam had shown up, driving onto the scene in their shiny black steed.

I'd found myself laying in the back seat in no time, bundled in an old, scratchy blanket. I'd noted the smell of gun powder and leather between gasps for breathe as I'd tried to distract myself from the pain in my ribs. The smell of Baby's interior would be a strange comfort from then on.

They put me back together over the next month, then helped me to hunt down my father. It had been the hardest trigger I'd ever had to pull.

Anyway, my Dad and I had adopted a song for just this type of situation. It worked to pass the time every time.

Dean grunted in my direction. He wasn't really a man of few words like most suspected. He knew many words and when he was comfortable it was hard to get him to stop. But right now he was in pain and I understood. There was only so much a handful of aspirin was going to help.

"You have to sing your part." I added, earning a side eyed glare. I knew it was all bluster. Dean and I had been getting a lot closer over the past year. He knew that my connection with my father was special and that each tidbit that I shared was somehow a piece of myself.

I cleared my throat, the only noise to compete with was the hum of Baby's engine. I started off quiet, but gained confidence as I continued on. "Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings, of the bluebird as she sings-"

"Oh no." Dean groaned, but a tired smile tried to appear on his pain tight face. "Really?" He re situated himself slowly so that he was leaning on the sturdy door of the Impala, his head leaning sideways on her seat. It was like he could draw comfort from her steel beams and leather just by contact. A child cradled, safe in their mother's arms.

"Oh, c'mon. You've sang less worthy songs..." I put my hand on the ankle of the leg he'd just stretched out. The warmth of his skin bled through his damp socks and it was comforting. I smiled back at him, "The six o'clock alarm would never ring. But it rings and I rise, wipe the sleep out of my eyes-"

"The shavin' razors cold and it sings-" He broke off in a laugh, his gravely voice sounding almost comical in contrast to how the original sounded.

We both sucked in a pained breath and began to belt it out, "Cheer up, sleepy Jean! Oh, what can it mean. To a daydream believer and a homecoming queen..."

We continued to sing, our sing a long powering the rest of the trip home with tired smiles as Dean seemed to melt further and further into the upholstery.

Upon arriving, I let Sam stitch up the gash on Dean's thigh since he was a lot more experienced than me, and attended to the smaller cuts on both of us. Once he was done, Dean insisted on stitching up the long gash on my arm and butterfly bandaging the smaller cut on my shoulder.

We slipped into dry, more comfortable clothes before Dean carefully cleaned every thing with precision. Then he settled down with a towel in my lap and my arm resting between us. He leaned into my space, his forehead touching mine. I bit my lip against any sound as the needle first pierced the skin. That was always the worst part and maybe the repetitive nature of continuously stabbing was the second.

Dean always apologized, his brow crinkling in concern and concentration as he focused on the task. He got a few stitches in before he drew in a deep breath, a sheepish lilt to his features, his eyes bright. "You once thought of me, as a white knight on a steed." He began to sing in a low, gravely tone, so much grittier because he was tired and the pain killers had yet to kick in. It made a laugh bubble up my throat as I nuzzled my nose against his temple. "Now you know how happy I can be. Oh, and our good times start and end without dollar one to spend. But how much, baby do we really need."

The man couldn't carry a tune to save his life, his tone going flat more often than not, but it was perfect. In the wake of his laughter, warmth spread through my chest, making me feel vulnerable in a way that I seldom let my self be. Suddenly, the stab and tug of the stitches was the furthest from my mind. "I love you."

I know he never quite believed me when I said those words, the twitch of his lips unsure of what direction to go in. If he should be happy or if he should worry. He'd always settle on a quiet, "I know."

It never made me feel bad. I never doubted or questioned if he loved me. All I had to do was pay attention. He would care for me with the same attention that he put aside for Baby. He fixed what he could when I was broken. He polished the dents and scratches that littered my psyche in the vulnerable, dark night. He made sure that, on top of preparing himself, that I was prepared for each hunt. Did I have boots? Did I have enough warm clothes if it was going to be cold? Did I have the right weapons? I liked to think that he knew I was capable of taking care of myself, he just wanted me to know that I didn't have to all the time. After hunting by myself for a year, it was nice. It was more than I could ask for.

He touched me in much the same way that he caressed his car when he tucked her in a night. Sure, firm hands over engine warm curves, a soft light in his green eyes. Yeah, I wouldn't trade that for anything.

Once the clean up is completed, and Dean's nightly walk through the bunker proves that everything is locked up tight, he returns to the room we've been sharing. The lights are out when he stumbles in, and it never fails that he stubs his toe on the trunk at the foot of his bed. He's got to have a permanent bruise on his big toe.

He hisses out a very indignant, "Son of a bitch."

I feel the drowsy smile tug on my lips, halfway to a deep and deserved sleep when he finally slides into bed behind me. Exhausted, I let myself carefully melt back into him, feeling safe as his arms wrap around me. His warm lips drag through the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, eliciting a shiver.

His lips take their time as they migrate to the sensitive skin beneath my ear, his hot breath tickling my skin and producing a heat that melts my bones. "Cheer up sleepy jean." He laughs, his staccato breath on my neck stoking the fire. "Oh what can it mean to a..." He bites and licks the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder. "Daydream believer and a..." He sucks on the skin, bringing forth a bruise that will stay for at least a week, marking me as taken. He pulls me closer to him, his arm around my waist pulling me into the pulsing hot length trapped beneath his boxers. His voice is an octave lower, basically a growl as he shifts his hips against you. "Homecoming queen..."

Now I'm a little breathless, "You're mis-" I shuddered, my breath catching in my throat momentarily as he slides his warm, open palm across my stomach and lower. "You're misusing the song, sir." I punctuated the 'sir' with a drag of my hips, reveling in the low groan I pulled from deep within his chest.

He hummed, stretching lazily behind me like an oversized cat. I turned over just so that I could see the content grin tilting on his face and cradle his jaw in my hands to savor it. "Should I be punished?" He whispered, the 'p' getting punctuated by his already slightly swollen lips.

I kiss those lips because I can't keep myself from doing so before I answer, "No, I think we've been punished enough." My voice is barely above a whisper, my lips gliding over his as I speak. "I think we should have a reward instead."

He wiggles his eyebrows before his expression grows soft. He tilts your entire hand so that it's now resting on the pillow between us before he lays careful kisses over the bandage covering the gash he'd sewn up earlier. If it were possible, I would melt further here. Seeing badass Dean Winchester place soul rending kisses over my wounds before pulling me closer so that he can reach the smaller cuts on my shoulder that peek out from beneath my tank top. His warm mouth against my chilled skin feels like an epiphany. Just like, when all of our clothes are gone and he slides into me while we're face to face, is a fucking revelation.

I can't find the words that I want to say, instead putting every emotion that I'm trying to communicate into one word, "Dean."

"I've got you, sweetheart." He says this as he hitches my knee up a little higher on his waist so that his next thrust is even deeper. He's got both arms tight around me like I might slip through his fingers like sand, and I suppose it's entirely possible. I'm unable to really think about that right now as a particularly deep thrust slides home and he moans sweet ecstasy into my neck.

Even though it's lazy, we don't last long like this. I come from just his cock hitting just the right spot. His arms tight around me and my head cradled against his shoulder. Dean comes a moment later, silent, shaking violently against me but not giving up the hold he has on my body.

All of those moments are leading up to this now, and I can say wholeheartedly that I wouldn't change a damn thing. That scent of gunpowder and leather surrounds me as I lay in Dean's warm arms cradling me to his chest. I can feel the comforting sway and rumble of Baby as she carries the boys safely away from another hunt.

As far as a hunter's death, I would count myself truly lucky.

"Just hold on, sweet heart. Just a little longer, okay?" I can hear the desperation in his voice, the pain, and its even more agony than the tear in my flesh I can feel pulsing blood from my side. He's got a firm hand over some bandages to staunch the blood flow, but I know it doesn't help much. I can hardly feel it.

"It's not your fault." I hear how weak my voice is and I know I don't have very much time. "I wouldn't trade a damn thing."

"Don't you talk like that." God, his voice has been ripped through by glass, jagged and bleeding. He knows this is the end. "Cas'll answer, he'll fix this."

I manage to put a hand on his face, noting that it's a little bloody, but there isn't time to clean it off as he leans into my touch. "Sing with me?"

He shakes his head 'no', tears welling up in his eyes. But, as my eyes slide shut, the last sound I hear is his gravely, tone deaf voice and the low rumble of Baby, and I smile.

"Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings..."

**Author's Note:**

> I left this story open ended. So there is a possibility that Castiel got there in time to save her. We'll just never know. Please let me know what you think! This is a little different than I've ever done before so I'm anxious. As always. I hope, if you happen to be reading this, that you have a fantastic day!


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